


There's nothing here for me no more

by GoodDalekPeppergrinderfromdowntheRiver



Series: Sherlolly (if you squint) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8860168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodDalekPeppergrinderfromdowntheRiver/pseuds/GoodDalekPeppergrinderfromdowntheRiver
Summary: Rewrite of an earlier piece that I did, called 'You never said goodbye'It has a different ending that is more dignifying for Molly.Inspired by comment by ChiefDoctor on 'You never said goodbye,': Somehow this made me angry with Molly. She was angry with him. She had every right to be angry...furious even. She has risked everything for him and she didn't rate a goodbye? Now when she finally tells him off good and proper (like he deserved) she lets an offer of coffee make it alright?!? That's actually pathetic. I'd rather she walks away from him altogether that wait around for any tiny scraps he throws her way.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChiefDoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiefDoctor/gifts).



> Rewrite of an earlier piece that I did, called 'You never said goodbye'  
> It has a different ending that is more dignifying for Molly.  
> Inspired by comment by ChiefDoctor on 'You never said goodbye,': Somehow this made me angry with Molly. She was angry with him. She had every right to be angry...furious even. She has risked everything for him and she didn't rate a goodbye? Now when she finally tells him off good and proper (like he deserved) she lets an offer of coffee make it alright?!? That's actually pathetic. I'd rather she walks away from him altogether that wait around for any tiny scraps he throws her way.

_He didn’t even say goodbye. He just left._

 

It had been playing on her mind for several days. No; playing wasn’t the right word. More like tearing through her mind. The thought wouldn’t dissipate even though she tried desperately hard to forget. The thought seemed to increase in magnitude. At first, it wasn’t a big deal but now, it was so important.

 

Okay, yes, Sherlock Holmes was back in 22 Baker street now. No doubt, he was sat on the floor, crossed legs, eyes closed and hands drawn together. He was probably contemplating a strategy to deal with the current state of events. Or maybe roaming his mind palace, gathering anything that he had learnt over the years about Moriarty. Though, he was probably devoid of John's company – not that he'd notice anyway. Mrs Hudson would probably enter a couple times, tutting with exasperation as she brought him a new cup of tea to replace the untouched one.

Yes, things were fine now.  He was back. However, a couple days ago, the man in question was faced with the uncertainty of going away forever and leaving the comforts of London and 221B Baker Street behind. He had no idea that events would play out in his favour and that he'd be back. As far as he knew, he was never going to see her again.  Yet, he didn’t even call, text or email. No bye. No closure. Just absence.

All she knew was that one minute she was working, and then the next, Moriarty’s face popped up on screens. She tried to contact Sherlock but he didn’t answer. Then the next morning, John and Mary Watson had paid her a visit. Both looked rather exasperated and worn out – though she didn’t mention. John smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. She offered a small smile in return and looked at him questioningly. Silently asking the obvious – Where was Sherlock?

“Do you know?” He asked.

“Know what?” She asked, eye brow’s furrowed. Being the naïve little Molly she was, she initially assumed that he was talking about Moriarty and she was slightly bemused.

“About Magnussen?” he responded. She frowned and he sighed and gripped Mary’s hand before explaining what had happened.

When he left, Sse let out a harsh laugh, that was unlike her usual light and airy one. She thought that he could trust her; that she counted – though obviously, she was wrong.  

And ever since, that Sherlock did not say goodbye, was eating her up.

 

*

She tried to clear the thought from her head by busying herself with her work.  _Mr._ _Famer was_ _thirty- seven_   _years. Relatively young, though premature silver hairs outnumbering the few black ones on his head. That being said, there was a massive bold patch, so_ _there weren't many hairs anyway._  Did she even matter to him at all? She knew that Sherlock certainly wasn't one for sentiment or friendship, really... but still.  Molly Hooper, FOCUS!  _Morbidly obese. It was probably all the fat that was clogging his arteries that did it... though he didn't have a stroke or a heart attack. His heart just stopped beating._ _Although he had abnormally high... what was it? Calcium or_ _potassium_ _or magnesium ions? Was he poisoned or did he just eat too much or was it that it was too low?_  

Groaning frustrated, she abandoned the body in front of her. She could not think clearly about her work. Each thought was tainted with her feelings towards Sherlock. She gripped the table and breathed heavily in an attempt not to cry. She had been holding back for days now. Though, what kept the tears from falling was that a harsh voice snarled  _why should_ _you_   _cry and actually care when he obviously didn't?_ Sherlock Holmes never did care about her; just used her as a tactical advantage, so why, why, why, did she feel so dejected that she bloody get on with her work?

She pulled of her thin blue gloves and threw them in the waste bin, concluding that she needed a little bit of air before she continued.  She’d nip outside, cheer herself up and then pretend as if nothing has happened. Then she would go home later, and have a well earned drink.

"It is high magnesium. Mr. Farmer was a binge eater and it was chronic. In an attempt to gain control, he took laxatives – and lots of them. Heart stopped beating."  

Her heart almost stopped beating in the shock. Molly froze instantly uncertain. Was he a figment of her imagination? Was she that obsessed and sad?  

She turned around hesitantly to see him, in flesh, standing in front of her. She took a minute to avidly drink him in. After all, these days, she couldn't be sure whether he'd be arrested or sent to another country for killing someone. She couldn't be sure if this was the last time she'd ever see him again. On his face, was a smug grin. Perhaps he was satisfied in the way that he had surprised her? Or maybe he was indulging in the fact that he was smarter than her. She didn’t know. After all, Sherlock was the one who made deductions – not her. His hair was jet black and curly as she remembered it. He wore his tall black coat and she could see his smart shoes sneaking out from underneath.  

A sudden urge to let all hell break lose rippled through Molly. Piping hot lava surged through her veins. Right then and there, she didn’t care. Not about his indifference and intelligence or presence. She wanted to cry. To release all her angry and ugly tears. To pick up the nearest conical flask or test tube or glass item and toss it against the room. For once, she didn’t care about keeping everything in a pristine condition. In fact, she’d probably feel calmer, seeing all the carnage and destruction of her own doing.

When she wouldn't talk, he advanced towards her and briefly looked over Mr. Farmer's body with feigned interest. Quickly, his pale green eyes locked on hers. "His nails. There is crumbs between them suggesting that instead of using cutlery, he used his fingers. Eager to stuff it all down. The amount of crumbs suggests that it is a habitual. Think about it Molly. He must have washed his hands at times and some of the crumbs would have washed out of his nails. However, he must have ate so frequently and so much for the crumbs to accumulate that much. As for the magnesium-"  

"Sherlock, I didn't ask," Molly eventually said, interrupting him. She was surprised that she was able to betray her feelings and that her voice came out evenly, despite her undeniable anger.

"Molly," he finally said stopping in front of her. His eyes were slightly dilated as if noticing that she was there. He stared at her intently for a few seconds and then frowned a little. "Still no engagement ring so you have not made up with Tom? Hmmm... Your eyes are darker than they usually are, so something is bothering you. Your posture is a bit slouched, which is quite unusual for you so whatever is bothering you must be very important... no... very persistent. You're angry. Yes, angry. Not at Tom. No, you are a little relieved it ended because you didn’t love him. He was a distraction... You snapped at me whilst I was deducing. Not your usual awkward self. You are angry at me. Why?"  

Before she could control herself, her palm connected with Sherlock’s cheekbone. He winced and stared at her incredulously. She turned her back, partially to hide the pain that the slap inflicted on her.

"I bet you didn’t deduce that that was coming?" she asked bitterly, still refusing to look at him.

"I don't know why you'd be angry at me... Ah, it's the drugs and then nearly dying thing. Look, that was all for a case,"  

"No Sherlock, you left and didn't even say bye," she said wobbly, glaring at him.  

She knew that Sherlock was really resistant when it came to emotions, but always liked to believe that deep inside, he was flooded with emotions. She entertained the idea that Sherlock just wore a mask; that one day, he’d feel comfortable enough to remove the mask and let her see the real him. However, as she stared at him, she found herself reconsidering. In his eyes, she saw that the indifference that normally shrouded his eyes was more pronounced.  

"I need a foot and a heart and a pair of lungs please." He said, clinically. 

"I thought that I mattered to you, Sherlock Holmes. That you could trust me," 

"And an arm,"  

She laughed at his blatant avoidance of her feelings. Though, it was a rather hollow voice. Fine, she'd play his game because discussing how she felt with Sherlock was like hurling things at a wall. 

"Shouldn't you be planning a way to defend the country from Jim Moriarty?" She asked, managing to keep her voice even.  

"How do you know I am not?"  

"You're here... I read... I read the article about you and Janine and the Magnussen case,"  

Instantly, his face sharpened – his jaw lines more defined. He could cut glass.  

"What happened?" She asked nervously when he wouldn’t speak.  

"Just stuff. I'm not a hero or a fairy tale prince, or whatever you have me out to be in your head. I am a high functioning sociopath. I killed Magnussen because he knew stuff he shouldn’t about people who shouldn’t have. I used Janine for a case. She got angry. That article happened."  

"What do you mean, used for a case? What case? And who did he know stuff about?" Molly asked. John hadn’t exactly given her the full details. He seemed to skirt over some aspects as if he were hiding something.

Sherlock huffed irritably. His lips were pursed and his green eyes pierced hers. "Molly Hooper, please drop the subject,"  

On a normal day, she would have mumbled an apology and they would have coexisted in her lab in a sterile silence. Comforting for Sherlock, but awkward for her. However, she was already angry at the fact that Sherlock left without saying bye. Then waltzed into her office as if nothing had happened, asking her for body parts. Why did he always have to treat her with no regards for her feelings? Like an object, rather than a person?  

"Okay, fine, you don't trust me. Whatever, that is fine. I try to be there whenever you need me and you can't even confined in me or say bye,"  

He groaned frustrated. "This again! You know I am not one for sentiment. You know that very well. So don't think that you can make me feel guilty for me not being someone I am not. And Molly Hooper, of course I trust you. If you took a moment to stop being all insecure, you'd see that!"  

Fed up and annoyed, she turned to him with a fake bright smile fixed to her face. "Please... please can you... can you just go?" 

"Why?" Sherlock asked.  

"You don't see me! You just see an object to be manipulated. You never regard my feelings and whenever you seem to, it is just a you trying to get another favour. I am fed up of that!" Molly was screaming – her face was a raw pink colour and words that she wasn't even consciously thinking about were falling out of her mouth uncontrollably.  

"Look, you know very well that I am an insensitive arsehole. In fact, I think that it is a universal fact. I pretended that I was dead for two years to John. Let him grief. I watched him at my gravestone. He asked for one last miracle. For me to stop being dead and I still kept my distance. As a friend of mine, you should be well aware that I am not like normal people. That I didn’t say good bye, shouldn’t surprise you Molly Hooper. I don’t understand why that hurt you a lot and I do not feel obliged to apologize or make up for something that I see no wrong in doing. Now can I have my body parts?”

She stared at him silently for a while, slightly shaking with fury. Why why why did her type have to be sociopaths? Why couldn’t she be happy with sweet and caring Tom who would always treat her well?

“I thought that after all we had been through that even as unemotional as you are, that you’d understand just how something like this would mean to me.” She sighed and closed her eyes figuring out how to word her thoughts. She loved Sherlock Holmes so much. In fact, her love for him was almost parasitic. Her job was devoted to how she could help him. Her thoughts were dedicated to thinking of ways to impress him. Her happiness was revolved around the times he would look at her as if he could actually see her and the times he complemented her hair or make up. She couldn’t do that to herself anymore. She needed closure. She needed out.

“Sherlock…” she said shakily with her eyes closed. “You will always be the consulting detective who cares more about solving cases than emotions. You will always be the man who doesn’t quite understand what the fuss is about when feelings are hurt. I will always be in awe of your intellect. But I’ll always be me as well. I’ll always care about so called little things like you not saying goodbye. I will always want someone who can be intimate with me. I thought I could change you or that over time, you’d want me. But I see that this isn’t the movies and… I just cannot do this anymore,”

She opened her eyes, surprised to find that all the anger and fury had drained right out of her. That she was able to find the right words and string them along in coherent sentences – a skill that was usually impaired when Sherlock was around. She risked a glance at Sherlock. He did not look angry as she had expected. No. There was something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“I think you should leave,” she added before turning around so that her back was to him. 


End file.
